


By The Riverbed

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: British Men of Letters (Supernatural) Being Assholes, Caretaker Dean Winchester, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Perfect Pair Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester to the Rescue, Season/Series 12, Sick Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: After a hunt leaves Castiel sick and injured, Dean works to bring him home while Sam works to tie up loose ends. Things go south, however, when Dean and Castiel are captured by the British Men of Letters, whose terms are pretty clear: join them or die.Dean won't join them, but he can't risk Cas's life either. He has to put all his faith in Sam to save them in time.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 15
Kudos: 168





	By The Riverbed

**Author's Note:**

> So happy to be a part of the first ever Perfect Pair Bang! It was lots of fun, and I've been so excited to share this story for the last several months!
> 
> Some special people to thank:
> 
> PieDarling and Hectass for organizing this fantastic bang
> 
> [Lindz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting) for once again being an amazing beta. Go show her some love, she's got awesome Dean/Cas stories too!
> 
> And of course, [Hitori](https://hitori-alouette.tumblr.com/) for creating all this gorgeous art! Isn't it just beautiful? Go show her some love too, she deserves all of it!
> 
> Enjoy the story!

Dean waits by the riverbed, holding his breath, fingernails curling into the muddy embankment. His eyes search fruitlessly for any sign of movement beneath the frothy surface, but the water is moving too fiercely to see anything except the foaming waves. His heart slams against his ribs—one, two, three, four, five—and time seems to slow down, precious seconds lasting eternity, just like in Hell. His mind reels, looping over and over again through a mantra that threatens his sanity:  _ be okay, be okay, they have to be okay.  _

When Sam breaks the surface, gasping for air, color restores to the world. Dean can hear the roar of the water again, feel the damp mud soaking through the knees of his jeans. Sam’s got Cas awkwardly in one arm, and Dean reaches out, grabs the back of Cas’s shirt collar, and yanks,  _ hard _ . Cas is halfway out of the water, and Dean pulls, muscles trembling in the cold, while Sam climbs out, teeth chattering.

“Cas?” Dean calls, to no avail. Cas’s eyes are half-lidded. The left side of his face is soaked in blood, dripping from an unseen source, curling down his cheek and neck like an angry eel. His teeth also chatter, and his lips are a worrisome blue color. “Cas, wake up!” Dean slaps him across the cheek. Cas hisses, an angry cat, and he shoves Dean away. It’s pathetically weak--Dean doesn’t even budge— but it’s something, and Dean breathes for the first time in several minutes. 

“Sam?” Dean calls and turns. “You good?”

“Ju-just p-p-peachy,” he says, shaking. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, feeling the adrenaline drop. His head spins. “Friggin’ fifty billion years old and you don’t know how to swim? Would’ve been great info to have  _ before _ we go trying to gank an evil water demon. Don’t you agree, Cas? Wouldn’t that’ve been some pertinent information? Some pretty useful tactical information? You know, you never go into battle without considering all variables, right?”

Cas says nothing. Dean waits and looks. 

He’s stopped shivering.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is lost over the roar of the river. 

.

.

.

He drives. 

The heater is on full blast. Sam has stripped out of his top layers and tries to maneuver Cas out of his. Sam struggles, though, fingers not nimble enough to work buttons when they’re trembling so hard, and eventually he just rips at the fabric, seams and buttons flying in all directions before it gets dumped into the footwells and forgotten. 

Dean only looks into the rearview a few times. Color slowly returns to Sam’s face, even if he’s still shivering, but Cas remains still and pale. Any time Dean opens his mouth, Sam just replies with a stern, calm, “Just keep driving,” and Dean obeys, because it’s the only thing he can do to help Cas right now and he needs the distraction or else he’ll go mad. 

He pulls into the emergency bay of the parking lot and barely has the car in park before Sam is bustling out, cradling Cas against his chest like an easy feat. 

“We need help!” Sam screams, bursting through the ER doors, Dean scrambling behind him. It’s a tsunami of chaos from there, as nurses hover around them—two pulling Cas out of Sam’s arms to lay him on the gurney, then wheeling him away, through two large double doors marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”

The adrenaline crash comes next. All the energy is sapped out of Dean and his legs feel like jelly. They can’t hold up his weight anymore, his balance is unsteady, and he falls back into a chair, loose limbed in exhaustion. He feels he could fall asleep right there, with the hard, uncomfortable chair pushing against his ass. 

Then, there’s a nurse fussing over Sam next. 

“Sir, are you hurt?” she asks, shining a pen light in Sam’s eyes with one hand, feeling the pulse point in his neck with the other. 

“I’m f-fine.” Sam’s teeth chatter and he rubs his hands up and down his arms. The nurse gives him a disapproving look, then puts her hand on his arm. 

“Come back with us. We’ll get you warmed up.”

Sam doesn’t fight as he’s led back to a bay. Dean watches helplessly, torn; he looks to the large double doors that hide Cas, wonders what is going on behind them, fights against the heinous voices in his mind spitting worst case scenarios. “Authorized Personnel Only” stares at him with red eyes.

He turns to the direction Sam disappeared, just a little bay a few yards away, his only barrier a flimsy little curtain. 

Left or right.

His throat tight, Dean forces himself to his feet, wobbles a little, and walks to the bed bay, back turned against “Authorized Personnel Only.” 

.

.

.

Sam’s fine, the doctors diagnose. Just a little chilly. They give him heated blankets and an IV for fluids, but otherwise he’s okay. He sits on the bed with a towel wrapped on his head, swathed under a mountain of blankets. His face is flushed pink now, and the goosebumps have finally gone away, though he’s still pale and visibly tired. 

“Good work back there,” Dean says once he finds his voice again. “You worked fast.”

Sam snorts. “I didn’t even think about it. One second I’m up there on the bank—next thing I know I’m down there in the water. I think I was under water before I even processed that he’d fallen in. By the way—swimming in the middle of the winter in the Midwest? Do not recommend. Zero stars.”

“Bet it’s a good way to up the metabolism, though.”

A quiet falls over them. 

“I’m okay, you know,” Sam says. “You should ask about Cas.”

Dean glances at his watch. It’s been an hour since Cas disappeared behind “Authorized Personnel Only.” No one’s come to talk to him. He’s afraid to broach the subject. Doubt leaves room for hope, but if he asks, then doubt is gone and. . . 

If something bad happened, they’d tell him, right? Tell him right away? 

And if something bad  _ hasn’t _ happened. . . he should be with Cas. Cas is probably terrified out of his mind—alone, wondering what’s happening, wondering where he and Sam are. 

He doesn’t realize he’s picking at his cuticles until Sam gives him a dark look. 

“Go,” Sam commands. 

Dean’s steadier on his legs now. He walks to the nurse’s station. The rest of the ER is almost deserted now—there’s just a young couple in the corner, a bucket in the lap of the man. 

The nurse is the same one that helped Sam earlier. “Need anything, hon?”

Dean clears his throat. “Is there any news on Castiel? The, uh, other guy we brought in?”

“I’ll check for you.”

She’s gone and Dean’s alone with his thoughts. He hates hospitals. He can’t see them, but Dean knows there are reapers lurking around every nook and cranny, waiting to charter souls away. Apathetic and disinterested in the souls they cradle to the afterlife. Just doing their job; just another delivery to Heaven or Hell. Like souls and lives are nothing more than an Amazon package. Death is grouted into every crack. They try to cover it up with the smells of bleach, antiseptic, betadine, but it’s always there. Those things only mask the smell. They don’t erase it, and Dean’s nose can always pick it up, that barren odor of decay and emptiness. Hospitals are a magnet for misery, a perfect breeding ground for angry, hostile ghosts that spent their last few days alive miserable and in pain. Underneath his feet, bodies sit in morgue freezers, waiting to be dissected, anchoring some poor spirit to this horrible place. 

Dad and Bobby both died in hospitals. And as a kid, hospitals were places you only went to when there was no other option. Absolute last resorts when hunting field work just wasn’t enough; whiskey and dental floss only went so far, after all. And the people inside were not to be trusted. He can still hear Dad’s voice, whispering to him, nothing but stern and terrifying, “Do you  _ want _ them to take you and Sam away?”

He’s so distracted by his thoughts, he doesn’t notice when the nurse comes back with an old doctor. His face is passive. 

Dean blurts out, “Is he okay?”

The doctor gives a soft smile. “We’ve brought his body temperature back up. We’ve diagnosed a concussion—he did need some stitches right in his temple. Had a nasty gash right there, probably hit his head on a rock? And there looks to be the early-onset signs of pneumonia—he’s resting now. We want to keep him overnight for observation. He’s going to be feeling very poorly for a while, but nothing rest and liquids and downtime won’t heal.”

Dean uncoils. The anxiety he’d been holding in his muscles releases and he can relax. Cas is going to be okay. Not that pneumonia and concussions are great, but it’s not Worst Case Scenario. It’s not the Prepare-to-Fight-the-Reaper Scenario. It’s nothing they can’t handle. Dean can take him home, wrap him up in blankets, shove tomato soup and lemonade down his throat, and veg out on the couch, catching up on all the latest Marvel movies. They can all get some much needed downtime. 

“Here, you can see him for a bit.” The doctor leads Dean back to the patient rooms. Thankfully, they walk past the ICU to the rooms for stable patients. It’s a long row of patients hidden off in little corridors, with a privacy curtain separating the beds. Cas is in the back corner, last bed on the right, tucked away. Dean and the doctor walk quietly, conscious to not wake any sleeping patients. Cas, too, is sleeping, curled on his side. He’s barely visible beneath the mountain of blankets piled on top of him, and the myriad of cords coming off the sides of the bed. One is a perpetual thermometer. Dean reads the machine it’s connected to—93.2. Not great, but not deadly. It’ll come up.

There’s also an oxygen mask that seems to take up over half of Cas’s face, and a large bandage on the side of his head. Overall, he looks very small. Fragile. Human. 

But he’s alive. Fighting, kicking, punching through whatever tries to keep him down. He’s alive, he’s going to be okay. Sam is going to be okay. They survived another near disaster. 

“You can sit for a while,” the doctor says. “Till visiting hours end.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, and falls into a hard plastic chair located by the bed. Cas remains asleep, not responding to his presence. But Dean sits there and watches. Watches the rise and fall of Cas’s chest. Watches the heart rate monitor go up and down in steady, monotonous beeps. Watches the temperature gauge slowly, but surely, go up by tenths of degrees. Thirty minutes after Dean sits down, Cas starts shivering, nails clawing at his bedsheets. Fifteen minutes after that, Cas starts to mutter—Dean can’t make it out, because it isn’t in English. But Cas’s tone is worried and ansty, a way Dean’s heard him many times over the near decade they’ve known one another. Dean tries to rouse him, but Cas is so deeply asleep that nothing Dean does makes a difference. 

Nurses come in every forty-five minutes like clockwork to check vitals. They smile politely at Dean as they check blood pressure and pulse-ox, and change out the saline IV bags as they deplete, one by one. 

Dean’s there for a long time. His ass starts to hurt, and at ten p.m., the nurses kick him out. Dean opens his mouth to argue—Cas is going to freak out when he wakes up here, alone—but the night nurse has that no-nonsense look about her. The kind that says:  _ I got enough going on looking after patients; I don’t have the energy to look after their worried family members too _ . 

Dean shifts uneasily on his feet, throws one last look over his shoulder to Cas, then heads off to find Sam.

Sam’s out of the little hospital bay, in the waiting room, wearing a pair of scrubs with the hospital logo, and a towel thrown over his shoulders.

“Thinking about a career change?” Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes. “My clothes are soaking wet right now. You don’t shove a hypothermic patient into cold, wet clothes, idiot.”

“You’re feeling okay?”

Sam nods and yawns. “Feel like I could sleep for a month, but I’m okay. Cas?”

“Doc says pneumonia and a concussion.”

“Ouch.”

“He’s been sleeping, but they kicked me out. Should be able to leave tomorrow, though.”

Sam gives Dean a knowing look. “You okay with leaving? We can stay.”

Dean thinks about it. Sam’s tired. He can tell, even if Sam won’t admit it. And Sam deserves some rest after the rescue he pulled today. But. . . leaving Cas feels wrong. Cas shouldn’t have to wake up alone, shouldn’t have to freak out. 

Sam senses his hesitation. “He’ll need some clothes. And he’ll want something other than crappy hospital food. What time do visiting hours start again?”

“Six a.m.” 

“We’ll be here early, and you can bat your eyes at the day nurse.”

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Okay, one: you’re the one that pulls the puppy-dog eyes to get your way, and B: you can’t even do that because you’re about to keel over. Not a good look for landing dates, Sammy. Women like a guy that can stay conscious through a conversation.” 

Sam huffs and rolls his eyes, then winces. Dean throws one last look over his shoulder, ignoring the twist in his gut, then he grabs Sam by the elbow and leads him out to the parking lot, where the Impala still sits parked haphazardly. 

“C’mon,” Dean says, helping Sam get into the car. The drive back to the motel is tense, uncomfortable, the empty space in the backseat practically screaming. 

It’s even worse when they actually get back to the motel, and Cas’s empty bed stands in the room. Dean helps Sam get under the covers and throws an extra blanket over him. He forces himself into the shower, waiting only long enough for the water to get tepid before getting under the spray, His muscles finally loosen; the last of the adrenaline dropping out of his gut, and he has to swallow down the bile that burns at the back of his throat. 

Cas is okay, he has to keep reminding himself. Everything is fine. The monster is dead. His family is alive. Banged up, but alive. No more people in this town will die. It’s a job well done by their usual books, and Dean can’t complain.

But he can’t get the image of Cas, tiny in his hospital bed, out of his mind. Cas’s humanity has been a hard pill to swallow, a difficult transition for all of them as they adjust to their new normal. Needing to get a trundle bed in hotel rooms, ordering an extra meal at diners, more quick stitch-work on another torn shirt, one more person Dean needs to worry about getting hurt. 

Not that he hasn’t worried about Cas in the past. He has. But never about the same things he has to fret over Sam about, like getting shot, or stabbed, or sick. Or drowning. 

He soaps up and rinses off in record time, and when he leaves the bathroom, there’s not even steam on the mirror. Sam is sleeping, snoring loudly, comfy on his stomach. Dean watches for a moment.

Sam acted so fast. He was under the water before Dean even understood what happened--Cas had fallen in. He waited by the edge of the riverbank for what seemed like forever. Time had stopped. In reality, it had been thirty seconds at most, but Dean couldn’t see anything beneath the surface of the water, which was foamy, churning, a slush of ice as the temperature was below freezing. 

It’s amazing Sam and Cas didn’t freeze to death. Pneumonia and a concussion—they really got off easy. 

Dean watches Sam snore for a few more minutes before he scribbles a note on the motel stationary and leaves it on the nightstand for Sam to find— _ went back to hospital, be back in the morning.  _ He grabs a change of clothes out of Cas’s duffel, the Impala keys once more and then he’s back on the road. 

.

.

.

By seven in the morning, Cas is mostly awake—a little groggy still, but able to answer the doctor’s questions—and his temperature is back up to the ideal 98.6. Dean listens to the instructions the doctor gives him while Cas is changing in the bathroom, most of it seeming rather obvious. No strenuous exercise, no alcohol, plenty of rest and fluids, avoidance of bright lights and loud noises. It’s a routine speech. Dean and Sam have had their fair share of concussions. Dean knows the drill. 

Dean takes the antibiotic prescription the doctor hands him, gets Cas out of the bathroom, and by seven-thirty, they’re in the car, headed back to the motel. Cas is too busy coughing to talk much, the cold air irritating his chest. He looks strange with his head bandaged to protect the stitches. Dean leads Cas back into the motel room. Sam is up, standing and dressed in his FBI suit. 

Dean raises his eyebrow at him. “Uh, going somewhere?”

“The sheriff’s office,” Sam says, fiddling with his collar. “Tie up some loose ends. She was pretty suspicious of us already, and just taking off in the night doesn’t help our case, especially since she knows we were in the ER last night.”

“How does she know that?” Dean asks, helping Cas get to the bed where he immediately lays down and curls on his side. 

“Uh, it’s a small town, dude. Everyone knew we were investigating the deaths.”

Cas makes a displeased noise and moves the free pillow over his face. Dean turns the light off; it’s just the early morning sun peeking through the curtains now, casting strange shadows on Sam’s face. Sam frowns and chews on his lip.

“Look.” Sam brings his voice down to a whisper, “I’ll handle the sheriff, okay? Why don’t you get everything packed up and we’ll hit the road tonight to go back home. Give him time to rest.”

Dean looks at Cas. He still has the hospital bracelet on his wrist. 

“Okay. That’s the plan, then.”

“Good. I’ll leave you the car so you can get the bags packed.” Sam glowers a little bit, then admonishes, “And don’t just wad up my clothes and throw them in. Fold them.”

“Demanding.”

Sam rolls his eyes, calls Dean a jerk, and then he’s gone; Dean is left alone, as Cas snores fitfully on the lumpy motel mattress, still wearing shoes. He sighs, and begins to pick Sam’s nasty socks off the bathroom floor. 

  
  


Cas sleeps while Dean packs their bags. It’s not restful, and he seems to be awake every few minutes anyways to cough or hack up a glob of phlegm. There’s not much to pack; Dean’s done in less than half an hour, but Cas is no state to do much more than lay there, so Dean draws the blinds and turns on the TV, muting it, and watches with captions. 

Cas eventually gives up on trying to sleep and joins Dean in watching reruns of  _ Seinfeld.  _ The show is a lot less funny than Dean remembers; he has memories of laying in motel rooms, just like this one, watching with Dad, who belly-laughed at just about everything. The memories are nice, even if it’s not quite the same nowadays. And it’s nice to share this with Cas. During the commercial breaks, Dean tells of one time when Dad dislocated his knee on a hunt; laid up for a straight week, the joint swollen over twice its usual size. They survived in the motel room on pizza, Chinese takeout, and whatever Dean could get to fall from the vending machine.

“Back in those days,” Dean says, “you could get stuff to fall out just by smacking on the sides hard enough, or pushing a random set of buttons. We got pretzels, chips, candy bars, Twinkies, gum—anything a kid could want. And nothing goes better with junk food than junk TV.”

Cas doesn’t interrupt; Dean’s not even sure if Cas is listening, or even if he’s awake, but it’s hard to stop sharing now that he’s gotten started. They spend the afternoon like that, and it’s one of the best days Dean’s had in a long time. He orders lunch from a nearby diner to be delivered—a burger for himself, and a bowl of soup for Cas, and he makes Cas eat it, despite the initial protests. 

“You haven’t eaten in like two days,” Dean says, through a mouthful of his own lunch. “You’ll feel better after you’ve got something in your stomach. Trust me.”

Cas looks doubtful, but he complies with Dean’s requests, and finishes the bowl of soup and the buttered roll that came with it. Dean suggests a shower, and hovers while the water heats up and Cas strips. 

“You good? Steady on your feet?”

“I’m fine,” Cas snaps, the annoyance overshadowed by the sudden cough. 

“I’m just trying to stop you from keelin’ over in there. You want another concussion, go right ahead.”

“Thank you,” and Cas slams the door in Dean’s face. Dean pouts, and sits anxiously on the edge of his bed. The TV is playing, but he’s not paying attention to what’s on. 

.

.

.

Cas moves slowly. He doesn’t complain, but Dean knows he’s hurting. He sees the pinched expression in Cas’s face, hears Cas’s monosyllabic responses, and the rattle every time Cas tries to take a deep breath. It’ll be several hours before they get back home. But, Dean figures, it’s better to suffer for a little bit than to suffer for a long while. Cas will feel better once they’re back home. It’s better than camping out here in this sleazy motel room for the foreseeable future. Besides, they can’t wait around in this town for much longer without rousing suspicion, especially after Sam finishes his talk with the sheriff.

“Here,” Dean says, handing Cas a bottle of gatorade he got from the vending machine. Then he passes the orange bottle filled with antibiotics and shakes it like a maraca. “Bottoms up.” 

Cas stares at Dean, the way he does when he doesn’t understand something Dean says, but he takes the medication and shakes out the dosage. Dean grabs the duffel bags off the floor and heads outside. It’s dusk; the sun is still settled below the horizon, the sky burned a cozy auburn. It’s chilly; Dean’s breath curls in front of his face like cigarette smoke, and he makes a note to shove Cas into a jacket before bringing him out here. He tosses the bags into the trunk of the Impala, then freezes. The hairs on the nape of his neck stick up, his animal instincts on edge. 

Someone is watching him.

Dean tries to act inconspicuous. He closes the trunk, and makes it look like he’s scratching at his back as he reaches for his holster. 

He whips around, gun out, but it’s knocked out of his hand before he can even catch a glimpse of his assailant. Dean scrambles, throwing punches wildly. Whoever they are, they’re wearing all black and a ski mask. The heel of Dean’s palm catches on their chin, and a man’s voice grunts out. 

The man lunges forwards, and Dean side steps him, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. The man hisses and throws his head back, colliding with Dean’s face. Dean bites into his lip and it instantly starts bleeding, making him let go of the man. Dean stumbles, ready to lunge again, when he realizes—too late—that there is a second man, coming from behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, something raises up and collides with his temple. Dean falls to his knees, vision blurry, head pounding. His stomach twists, bile burning his esophagus. 

“Check the room,” one man says. “I’ll take care of Dean.”

Dean tries to shout out a warning to Cas, but his voice is trapped in his throat. Darkness ebbs in, and Dean falls into it. 

.

.

.

Dean’s head aches. 

When he opens his eyes, it’s dark and bleary; then the smell hits him. Damp, rotten, the smell of must, of something that’s been left alone, sealed, for way too long. The scent of abandonment. His throat is dry.

Then he remembers. 

“Cas?” he croaks. Winces. It’s uncomfortable and painful. His vision adjusts slowly, and there’s not much to make out anyway. The floor is concrete; a low ceiling hangs above his head, drip, drip, dripping occasionally from a spot away in the corner. “Castiel?”

“De-Dean?”

Dean’s chest uncoils, but only slightly. His wrists are bound behind his back with what feels like electrical wires. He struggles into a sitting position, bracing himself against a cold, stone wall. Across the way, about ten feet, Cas lays on his side, breath harried, like crinkling plastic. 

“Are you all right?” Cas’s voice is hoarse and he starts coughing, slippery and wet, and Dean’s chest aches in compassion.

“I’m fine.” Not really, but he’s not terribly hurt anywhere, and that’s what matters at the moment. The rest can be dealt with as the punches come. “You?”

Cas’s face is screwed up in pain. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a series of shallow, rib shaking coughs. 

“Okay, okay. Don’t try to talk. Just relax.” It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Cas doesn’t  _ look _ hurt. At least nothing new. His face is still bruised, but that’s from getting beat in the river like a sock in the washer. 

Dean thinks. Racks his brain for memories. There’s a blurry face in his recollection, but not one he recognizes. He thinks of all the enemies the Winchesters have made over the years, and the list is not insignificant. They have lots of enemies across all species: human, angel, demon, monster. But he can’t think of anyone that would go to this kind of trouble. Mostly, Dean figures anyone wanting vengeance against the Winchesters would just kill them rather than go through the trouble of kidnapping them. A shot right between the eyes, then  _ poof _ , gone. 

The only gauge he has of how much time has passed is the ache in his throat, his body’s desperate cry for water. It’s been at least six hours, probably more. More than long enough for Sam to realize something happened—Sam had been only minutes away, after all. Dean imagines it now. Sam would’ve gone back to the motel, noticed the Impala still in the parking lot. Seen the mess in the room. Put it together. Formed a plan. 

Sam’s on it. Sam will find them. Dean’s positive. They just have to hold out until then. 

More time passes. Cas begins shivering; face flushed with a fresh fever, wracked every few minutes with coughs that make Dean’s ribs ache. Cas has missed at least two doses of antibiotics by now, and the damp, cold air is definitely not helping matters, nor is the smell of mildew that sneaks up Dean’s sinuses into his brain. 

Then, there are the footsteps. Above their heads first, then they come closer. The distinct sound of a deadlock being opened. Heavy boot steps on stairs. Dean cranes his neck, but can’t get a good look at their captor until he’s right in front of them.

“Sorry for the wait, lads,” he says. “Got a bit tied up. Eh?” 

Dean scowls. “Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?” 

The man signs and shakes his head. He’s wearing a pressed suit, with his hair gelled back. A super punchable face. There’s a bit of an accent, too—posh and condescending. 

“Straight to the point, I see. Well, I can appreciate it. Time is nonrenewable, after all. Arthur Ketch, British Men of Letters, London Chapter. No need to introduce yourself, Dean Winchester. We already know about you, as well as—” he turns over his shoulder, looks at Cas, then pauses. Frowns. “That,” he says tonelessly, “is  _ not _ Sam Winchester. Who are you?”

Cas glares with glassy eyes, teeth bared like an agitated animal. 

Ketch straightens his back. “So that’s how it’s going to be. Alright, very well. Just goes to show if you want a job done right, you need to do it yourself.”

“Answer the questions,” Dean snaps. “Why are we here?”

“All in due time, gentlemen. I’ve got other matters to attend to—like why orders were not carried out. I specifically requested Dean  _ and  _ Sam Winchester, not”—he makes a vague gesture with his hand—“whoever you are. I’ll be back momentarily.”

“No, no, no—get back here!” But just as quick as he came, Ketch is gone, back up the stairs. The door shuts. The deadbolt clicks. The air is stuffy and humid.

Dean slumps against the wall, trying to take some of the pressure off his aching hands. He flexes his fingers and winces. 

“I thought the Men of Letters all died out. Killed by Abaddon.” 

“The American chapter,” Cas says shallowly. “It makes sense. . . that other sects would survive. Lay low after the massacre.” 

“And what the hell would they want with me and Sam?”

Cas shrugs. 

The silver lining is that they  _ didn’t  _ get Sam. Sam is safe, free; Sam will find them and slaughter these sons of bitches. 

More time ticks by. Dean’s discomfort grows by the second, and if he’s feeling this bad, he knows Cas is feeling at least ten times worse, even if he won’t admit it. Dean tries to find the silver lining in this scenario; at least with it being dark and quiet, Cas’s concussion shouldn’t be faring too bad.

But the room  _ smells _ . The musty stink that comes from stale air, from not being opened in years. There has to be mold or mildew somewhere, maybe even asbestos, hidden in the cracks of the concrete, shrouded by the darkness. Dean’s nose is irritated; his chest is aching. He can’t imagine how bad Cas must be feeling.

Finally, the door opens again. This time, two sets of footsteps come down the stairs. Dean tenses, prepared for. . . what, he’s not sure exactly. Lord knows he’s in no position to fight right now. But he’ll do whatever he can. His tongue is as sharp as the knives he carries, and a well placed verbal kick in the groin can often do more damage than a bullet. 

It’s the same man as before—Ketch. The new guy is slightly shorter, less mean in the face. Nerdy, almost.

“My apologies for not recognizing you earlier, Castiel,” Ketch says. “You see, our previous intel had assured us—beyond a shadow of a doubt, in fact—that you were dead, considering the whole. . . Lucifer situation. Quite curious: why aren’t you dead?” The last part is accusatory; a heated question in the space of this damp, dark, moldy room. Like it’s a crime that Cas is alive, still breathing. 

“You know about Lucifer?”

“Oh,” the nerdy man says, “we know about everything. Yes, it’s all right here.” He gestures to an iPad kept under his arm. “Everything under the sun about the Winchester brothers—aliases, school addresses, habits, and weaponry—including your angelic ally. You really need to explain that one, Dean. We’ve tried for years to get angels to work with us—-a testy lot, aren’t they? Super aggressive. How’d you get this one to cooperate?”

“If you know everything about us, then you know what we’ll do to you if you don’t let us go,” Dean snarls. He goes straight for intimidation. It’s worked in the past, and it’s really the only weapon at his disposal right now. These people know everything about him? Then they should know he will  _ eviscerate  _ them—Hell is still in his veins, and it’s not locked away, not buried deep down. It’s just beneath the surface, an animal barely contained—how dare they, how dare they,  _ how dare— _

Unfortunately, it’s at that moment that Cas is hit with another crippling coughing spell. Low and shallow, wet and phlegmy. The kind that rattles the skeleton. It immediately draws the attention of their captors, and it’s obvious nothing Dean says or does in that moment will break it. 

“What’s wrong with it?” Ketch asks. “Mick, any explanations on that?”

Mick shakes his head, but he looks. . . different. Almost like there’s pity for Cas. Dean switches gears. He can play with pity, work with it, mold it, do  _ something _ —

“He’s sick,” Dean growls. “He’s hurt and sick and if you don’t let us go, he might die.”

“Nonsense,” Ketch says, shrugging. “Angels don’t get sick. Is this a scheme of yours? We’ve heard you’re quite the swindler when you try. Besides, you haven’t even heard our proposition.”

“Your  _ what _ ?”

“We want an alliance,” Mick says, but his eyes keep sliding over to Cas. “Back before Abaddon invaded the American sect, all chapters of the Men of Letters worked closely together. Shared intel, the like. We had to go underground after the Lebanon chapter was massacred, but that was well over fifty years ago now. Can’t keep living in the past, can we? We’re better now. Know more, have more. We figure, in this day and age, it’s time to start working together again.”

Dean can’t help it. He laughs. A bark of angry, frustrated laughter, drenched in disbelief. “You attack us and kidnap us, and now you expect us to work with you?”

Mick shakes his head and sighs. “I told you this was going too far,” he says to Ketch. “We should’ve just confronted them at the sheriff’s office.”

“Sheriff’s office? What, you’ve been stalking us?”

“Of course not,” Ketch snaps, pulling at his tie. “Stalking is not the right word to use. I prefer scouting. We had to make sure you and your brother would be fit for the job. So we watched from a safe distance.”

“How long?” Dean says through gritted teeth.

“We’ve been keeping tabs on you ever since the report that an angel raised Dean Winchester from Hell,” Ketch continues. He squints down at Cas. Protective fury runs up Dean’s spine. “You can imagine the rumors and fear! A real life angel. The Good Book says they’re great spirals of fire with hundreds of eyes, seeing through the realms of time. Catching sight of their true form, if not a prophet of God, has made men go mad. Others have been said to go brain-dead. Rumors like that, you can imagine the fear, the anxiety. We were quite impressed when word got around that the Winchester brothers had managed to tame such a beast. I must admit, I never imagined Castiel being this. . . pathetic.” 

“Bite me,” Cas manages to say in a single breath, eyes icy daggers despite the fever shining in them. 

Ketch laughs at that. Then he says, “Don’t tempt me, halo,” with a wink. 

Sirens go off in Dean’s head. His teeth clench painfully, jaw protruding through his skin. “You touch a hair on his head, and I’ll feed you your own fingers.”

Ketch rolls his eyes with enough drama to give Sam a run for his money. He sighs, put upon, and looks to Mick, pleading. Mick shrugs, but then he’s still looking back at Cas with. . . sympathy, maybe? Dean can’t quite place it. It’s different than how Ketch looks at Cas though, like a cat ready to pounce on a flightless baby bird. 

“Look, let’s make this simple, all right?” Ketch says. “Ever hear about any mysterious deaths in the UK? Wild animal attacks? Unexplained disappearances? Horrific murders?”

Dean says nothing. He continues to stare icily at Ketch, imagining what he’s going to do to the fucker once he gets out of these bonds. 

“In the last fifty years alone, we’ve managed to eradicate almost ninety-five percent of all monsters. Vampires, werewolves, an occasional djinn—nearly extinct on our side of the pond! We can go months without an attack. It’s so quiet there, we’ve begun sending our men around the rest of Europe. We’ve had marvelous success in France, Spain, Belgium, Romania—vampire capital of the world at one time. No longer. 

“The States, however? Your monster population seems to be rather static. Not going up, at least in recent years, but definitely not going down. You have much more land mass, and different sorts of monsters, we understand.” Ketch chuckles a little. “After all, there are no wendigos having tea in Manchester. You also have a larger population, ergo, more hunters, and yet, you are not putting a dent in the monster population. Not a good look, eh? But we want to help.”

“You want to help. . .” Cas says, “the American hunters?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we? British, American, Mexican, African, Japanese, Chinese, Russian. . . what difference does it make where one comes from? We all share a common goal: protect civilians from whatever goes bump in the night. We have weaponry beyond your wildest imaginations, and you have the expertise on the monsters we don’t get on the other side of the world. Not to mention your repertoire is quite impressive.”

“And you thought kidnapping us was the way to have this discussion?” Dean asks slowly.

Ketch at least has the decency to look flummoxed. He shifts his feet and twists his neck. “Well, we’ve heard the Winchesters can be quite temperamental. You especially. Didn’t want a risk getting shot between the eyes.”

“Oh, buddy, trust me. You’re going to wish that was all I did.”

The humor disappears from Ketch’s eyes. His face turns stony, stern, and homicidal. He shares a glance with Mick and a conversation passes between them with just air and a look. 

“I’m sure you’ll change your mind,” Ketch says. “In the meantime, Mick will make your stay as comfortable as possible.” Then, Ketch turns back up the stairs. Mick is flushed and he clears his throat, reaching into his pocket for a pen knife. He kneels over Cas and Dean’s bones turn to steel under his skin.

“Get the hell away from him,” Dean growls; Mick ignores him, and in one practiced swipe, cuts the bindings around Cas’s wrists. Cas’s face pinches in pain as blood rushes back into his limbs, but he keeps quiet. 

“You next, I suppose,” Mick says. “A hunter’s no good without his hands.”

Dean can’t move anywhere tied up like he is, and Mick cuts his bindings too. Dean lunges towards him, but Mick is expecting the attack. He quickly jumps back, just out of Dean’s reach—the ankle chain preventing Dean from going further than a few feet. 

“We’ll give you some more time to think on it,” Mick says. Then he turns and follows Ketch up the stairs, footsteps echoing. The door opens, a stream of light billowing down for just one moment—and then it’s gone, dark, and the echo of the door closing rings in Dean’s ears. 

Dean pants for several seconds. He winces and rubs his sore wrists, clenching his teeth. He can’t see in the dark, but he knows there are ligature marks, and it’ll take weeks for the bruises to fade away. He sits for several moments until the pain isn’t so bad, then he crawls as far as he can. The chain scrapes against the concrete floor. Cas is just barely in reach. Dean’s fingertips brush against his shoulder. 

“You okay?” he says quietly.

Cas nods, face scrunched up. 

“Just hang tight. Sam’ll be here soon.”

Dean just hopes that Sam will leave enough of these bastards for him too. 

.

.

.

Dean sleeps. He figures he must, at least, because time seems to slip away from him. Like sand through his fingertips. He hurts and is uncomfortable, but still, he sleeps, and he wakes only when the door opens again, a trickle of light bleeding down the stairway.

He scrambles, decades of training and instinct taking over, but there is no gun to grab, no knife to lunge for, just his hands and teeth—but Mick does not get close enough for Dean to make use of them. Mick stares in fear, a tray in his hand. He sets it down on the ground, close enough for Dean to grab it, but far away enough that Dean can’t hurt him. 

There are two bottles of water and a plate stacked with bread, butter, and some sausage links. 

“Have you given more thought to our deal?” Mick asks patiently. 

“Piss off,” Dean snaps. “Let us go, and I’ll go easy on you.” 

Mick blinks. Not surprised, but disappointed by the response. “I hope you’ll change your mind. 

Really, Dean, Castiel. We can do so much good work together.”

“I’m going to do good work with your entrails if you don’t let us out.”

Mick swallows, face paling. “I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.”

He’s gone again, just as quickly as he appeared. Dean swears, then deflates. He looks over at the plate of food. It doesn’t smell very good, but Dean’s stomach growls, and his mouth is so dry. He grabs the water bottles, hands one to Cas, then swallows about half of his in one go. Cas is slower with his, but he still drinks vigorously. Dean shoves the bread and sausage in his mouth. It’s flavorless, but his stomach craves it. 

Cas also eats more slowly than Dean, but he eats. He looks haggard; pale, shoulders slumped, face still brushed with yellow bruises. He’s also feverish. Shivering. Dean bites the inside of his cheek. 

“Keep eating,” Dean says, shoving the plate closer to Cas. Cas stares at it, green around the gills, and picks at the bread, nibbling like a mouse. 

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean mutters. “We could use you right about now.”

“I’m positive he’s doing his best,” Cas says, throat scratchy. He coughs. And coughs. And coughs. Caught in a trap of shallow, aching coughs that limit his breathing, until his face turns red, eyes water. There’s no sign of it coming to a stop anytime soon. Dean panics. He smacks Cas on the back,  _ hard _ . A fat glob of yellow phlegm lands in Cas’s palms. It’s the size of a half dollar. 

“Gross,” Dean says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work. 

“Thanks,” Cas says, voice clearer. He looks at the mess in his hands with disgust, and rubs it on the cement wall behind him. 

“What else am I for?” Dean fakes a smile, but Cas returns it, genuinely. 

With nothing else to pass the time, Dean talks; his voice fills the empty air, which had previously been like static. He talks about nothing. Everything. The odds and ends of life and childhood and his  _ Dr. Sexy _ fan theories, from the true identity of Dr. Piccolo, to the more radical ones, hoping to explain the minute inconsistencies between recent episodes. 

“Coma theories are lazy writing, Dean,” Cas says, indulging him, but Dean’s face flushes with indignation. 

“The clues are all there! Trust me, man, no one gets shot in the chest and just walks it off like he did, kevlar or not. He’s been in a coma since last season’s finale!”

Cas rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness in his eyes, even though his face is tight, and his chest is taut. Talking seems to wear Cas out, so Dean does most of it, and Cas is content enough to let him talk about anything from his middle school dance catastrophes, Sam’s stint with the croup, to his most memorable hunts.

“Sally MacDonald. Her daddy owned the gas station down the road. Great dude. Used to give me and Sam loads of candy, ‘cause Sam tutored the little brother.”

“Turns out, it wasn’t a chupacabra after all. Just a mean, old cougar—and  _ not _ the sexy kind.”

“Okay, but seriously. Where did the whole ‘vampires are allergic to garlic’ thing even come from? And the wooden stake through the heart? Bram Stoker was apparently  _ not _ a hunter. Wait--what if he was a vampire? And he came up with all these bogus theories so people wouldn’t be able to kill him! Cas, is that what happened?”

Dean’s not even sure if Cas is listening. He seems to bob in and out of consciousness, occasionally nodding, eyes squinting at appropriate times. He offers little to Dean’s monologues. When he does, it’s monosyllabic, or just a noise here and there. Dean realizes, halfway through a story of how someone spiked the punch at the Sadie Hawkins dance and everyone was puking in the parking lot, that this is more for his comfort than for Cas’s anyway. If Dean talks about the mundane things, he doesn’t have to focus on the more pressing matters at hand. He can ignore the sound of footsteps over his head if it’s overshadowed by the sound of his voice. He can’t get anxious over time ticking away if he loses track of it. He doesn’t have to worry about Sam—where he might be, if he’s hurt, if he’s coming after them—if Sam isn’t at the forefront of his mind.

But the direness of their situation can’t be forgotten so easily. No matter how much Dean wishes it could be. Eventually, biology reminds him, when he’s forced to relieve himself in the bucket in the corner. Cas follows soon after. 

And every few minutes, Dean’s tales are interrupted by a hacking, harrowing cough that Cas tries to stifle into his fist. But they get louder, rougher, wetter, and though Dean keeps slapping Cas across the back, it doesn’t fix the problem. After the third time, there’s blood in the mucus. Not a lot, but enough to be noticeable, even in the darkness. Cas grows noticeably paler by the minute, and he shivers even though his skin is burning hot, teeth chattering. 

Cas’s breath starts to smell too. Like something rotten. He keeps trying to scratch the stitches in his temple, shooting irritated glares whenever Dean slaps his hand away. The bandage taped to his temple is bloodied too—little pinpricks of red. 

Dean tries to not let his worry show. It won’t help either of them if he freaks out. But the more time passes, the harder a battle that becomes. He knows that Sam, wherever he is, is doing his goddamn best, but they are on a clock, and it is one that is not incredibly forgiving. Dean estimates they’ve been here at least twenty-four hours; possibly thirty-six. Too damn long. Too many missed doses of antibiotics. The infection’s been allowed to get stronger, and Dean can’t help but think that there is a tiny army fighting inside Cas’s veins, one potent enough to do lasting damage. Infections mean fevers. Fevers, when high enough, and when lasting long enough, cause brain damage. 

Dean just barely got Cas back from the claws of Lucifer. He can’t lose Cas to something as stupid, pathetic, banal as  _ pneumonia _ . 

He’s going to have to fight these British assholes. For him and for Cas. 

So, Dean talks to fill the empty void. To offer some iota of comfort in this dark, dank prison. And he waits. Listening to the creaking above him, preparing for whenever their captors dare to show their faces again. 

.

.

.

Mick looks irritated. But there’s also a pinched tiredness in his face, evident in the lines under his eyes, the frown marks around his lips. Ketch stands wordlessly by the stairs, arms crossed. 

“You’re really making this more difficult than it needs to be,” Mick pleads. “Dean, please. Listen to reason. Why are you denying this offer? It’s a good one. Mutually beneficial.”

“Kidnapping us is beneficial?”

Mick rolls his eyes, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Merely a means to an end! Surely you can understand that. You’ve done it enough.”

“Let us go,” Dean growls, “and I won’t make it hurt when I kill you.”

“The brass tacks attitude might have gotten you this far, but I assure you, the Old Men will suffer none of that nonsense.”

“The Old Men?”

“Forget it. Just. Please? The Winchester brothers with the Men of Letters? We’d be an unstoppable team.”

“ _ No, _ ” Dean spits. The effect is short lived, though, because it is overshadowed by another painful coughing fit that overtakes Cas. Mick looks at him guilty, wincing. 

“C’mon,” Dean says, quieter. “Look at him. He needs medicine. A bed. Something better than—” Dean pulls at the manacle around his ankle. It scrapes against the concrete, making a hideous hissing noise. “Better than this. You keep us here, you’re going to kill him.” 

Again, Mick shifts uncomfortably on his heels and swallows. He fiddles with the bowtie around his neck and starts to sweat.

“It’s not me that’s killing him,” Mick says. His voice is surprisingly even for how nervous he appears. “You’re the one being obstinate. Honestly, what have you got to lose? By joining us, you’ll gain everything and lose nothing. We have money and resources beyond your imagination. An entire R&D department, right at your fingertips! You ever shot off a grenade launcher, Dean? How about one filled with silver? Just one bugger will wipe out an entire clan of werewolves.”

“Why don’t you take that grenade launcher and shove it where the sun don’t shine?”

Mick sighs, but doesn’t look surprised. He looks down at Cas nervously. Cas is only semi-awake, and Dean’s not sure how much of the conversation Cas is processing. Not that it matters much. Nothing’s changed. Dean did not fight against being Michael’s meat puppet to give up his agency to some fancy, rich schmucks. 

Because Mick is wrong. There is a lot he has to lose. If he teams up with these assholes, he’s selling himself into slavery. He won’t be beholden to anyone. And he can’t team up with them after they’ve captured him and Cas, tied them down here in the dark, and tried to pretend like nothing is wrong. Like it’s a perfectly sane thing to do when you don’t get your way. Like this is a thing normal people do every Tuesday evening right after brunch and grocery shopping, and not the type of behavior that would get someone a John Walsh hosted special on  _ Dateline _ . Dean doesn’t have to have known them long to understand what kind of people these Men of Letters are—the kind to take care of things cleanly and quietly when they’re unhappy. 

So much of Dean’s life has been outside of his control: his mom dying, his father going crazy in grief, the forces of evil lusting after his brother. . . the few things that remain within his control, he has to sink his nails into and not let go. 

He’s not going to sell Cas into this either. 

Ketch rolls his eyes. “Crass,” he says. “You would’ve benefited from a Kendrick’s education, clearly.”

Dean grits his teeth. 

“You’ll change your mind eventually,” Ketch continues. “Can’t keep refusing us forever.”

Dean’s blood freezes in his veins. Ketch’s words rattle inside his head, too close to what others have said to him.

Alastair, with his nasally, tinny laugh:  _ everyone says yes eventually. No one holds out forever. _

Michael, wearing his father’s face:  _ you will say yes because it is your destiny _ .

These people are no different than angels or demons, monsters in their own right. 

“Leave us,” Cas says, dredging up the scraps of his old power. Even without his grace, Cas is still an angel, at least in Dean’s mind. A monument of ancient power and knowledge. It occurs to Dean just then that Cas is probably older than the stones that built their current prison. All of that shoved into this sack of meat. “Leave us or let us go.”

Ketch and Cas stare off. 

Cas, in this state, should not be intimidating. He is slouched, eyes puffy and red, shivering, and pale. Yet, his aura radiates the celestial energy that has always been wrapped around him. Ketch’s eyes twitch.

He turns without a word, back up the stairs, feet stomping. Mick opens his mouth, then closes it, and shifts nervously on his feet. 

“Look,” Mick says, impatient, irritated, but also worried, hasty. “You don’t want to get on his bad side. Trust me. It’s in the best interest of everyone if you just do as we say. We’re not enemies, Dean. We have a common goal. Can’t you see it? A world without monsters? Without the senseless violence, without demon deals, without angels mucking everything up? We can help you get it. For everyone. You, your brother, and the rest of the world. You’re fighting progress. Innocent people die every day because of some monster. You’ve seen it, bathed in that blood, fought those battles. Don’t you want it to end?”

Mick’s sincerity hurts. This poor sucker truly believes this spiel he’s giving. He’s drank the Kool-Aid and is now preaching this gospel. Dean knows there’s no way to eliminate all monsters. There will always be something that goes bump in the night. Some creature lurking in the shadows for prey. And getting rid of demons? Demons are human souls—ancient, corrupted energy, no longer resembling a person, but they used to be human nonetheless. So, as long as people walk the Earth, so will demons.

Plus, Dean is nobody’s puppet. He won’t allow it.

“It ain’t ever going to end,” Dean says. He scowls at Mick. “Don’t you get it, you poor son of a bitch? That future ain’t possible. What is possible is me and my brother and Cas fighting the good fight, for as long as we can. Training the next generation of hunters to follow after us. Monsters are always going to walk the Earth, and people like us are always going to be out there to stop them. And we’ll do it without the likes of you.”

Mick blinks and swallows. He opens his mouth, prepared to say something, but then he closes it and takes a tentative step back. Cas coughs again and again and again, and the room fills with the rustling of his ribs and shallow breath. Mick pointedly does not look at Cas. 

He walks back up the stairs and slams the door.

Dean crawls as close to Cas as his chain will allow, puts his hand on Cas’s shoulder. “It’s okay, just relax, deep breath,  _ deep breath _ .”

.

.

.

“It’s my wings,” Cas says suddenly. 

“What?” It’s been quiet for so long. The break in the silence is startling. The hackles on the back of Dean’s neck rise, but soon he relaxes. It’s just Cas. Dean rubs at Cas’s shoulders. Dean can feel the fever through Cas’s clothing. Fever, but no sweat. A fever with no sign of breaking.

“Back at the riverbed. You said, how can I be fifty billion years old and not know how to swim. All angels are poor swimmers. Our wings, they’re already exceptionally heavy. When they get wet, they get waterlogged, and drag us straight down to the bottom. We can’t drown, since oxygen isn’t necessary for our survival, but it is still a terrifying ordeal, to be trapped like that. I don’t have my wings anymore, of course, but. . .”

“It was instinctual,” Dean supplies. “You panicked, and didn’t know what to do.”

“You were right, though. It was stupid of me not to mention it.”

“When we get out of here, Sam and I will teach you.”

“That’s probably necessary.” 

“Beach vacation. Always wanted to stay in the Florida Keys. Or Port Aransas. Been a while since I’ve had some Texas barbecue. Best in the nation. Except for my barbecue, of course.”

Cas hums committedly. “Brisket.”

Dean snorts. “Who knew you would turn into such a foodie?”

“To be fair, it’s only  _ your _ food. Nothing else is good.”

Dean blushes. “At least someone has good taste. Frickin’ Sammy and his weird rabbit stomach.”

“More for us, then.”

“I like the way you think. We can do the whole nine yards. Make up for Thanksgiving, since we missed it this year.” Because Cas had been Lucifer’s meatsuit for the better part of the year; because Dean had been barely coherent in between cases, in those rare moments of sobriety. There’s a lot to make up for. “Brisket instead of turkey. Biscuits, macaroni, green beans. A whole feast.”

“We should invite the girls. Claire wants to see the bunker.”

“As long as you keep her away from the gun range. She’s way too trigger happy to be around all those weapons.”

Cas nods his head in Dean’s lap. “That’s probably a good idea. You can distract her with the garage. She says her check engine light keeps coming on, and she doesn’t know how to fix it.”

Dean swears, but it’s lighthearted. He continues to rub at Cas’s shoulders, tries his best to relax in the dark, quiet atmosphere. 

Dean’s stomach rumbles, now that his mind is focused on food. The bread, butter, and sausage from early this morning is long gone, and who knows when food will be offered again. It wouldn’t surprise Dean if these British fuckers would resort to withholding food to get him to join their team. Dean can handle it. He still remembers the gnawing ache that would claw at his gut during childhood, when money was tight and Dad wasn’t answering their calls. Sometimes it would be days between true meals, when vending machines wouldn’t let food go despite all the banging and teetering, and there wasn’t a sympathetic motel employee willing to spare some snacks or a few bucks. Dean can go without food.

But can Cas? As sick as he is?

More importantly, is that something Dean’s willing to gamble on?

Is that something these supposed Men of Letters are counting on?

Dean can hold out when it’s only him in danger. Can he hold out when it’s Cas that’s getting hurt too?

It’s almost like Cas can still read his mind; even without his grace, he is remarkably intuitive. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t give in to them. Sam is on his way. He’ll get us out of here.”

Dean releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. It’s tight in his chest, slow coming out. His shoulders ache.

“Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes, willingly it to come faster. He knows Sam will stop at nothing to find them. He knows, logicially, they can’t be that far away from the motel. Surely Sam has some lead by now, or maybe he even knows exactly where they’re at and he’s forming a plan. Sam was always the more patient one. Dean liked to storm in guns blazing, but Sam was more cautious, thought of the contingencies, the possibilities, the what-ifs. The reason it’s taking Sam so long, clearly, is that Sam is trying to get his ducks in a row. 

“So, whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” Cas repeats. “No matter what happens. No matter how bad it gets.”

Dean swallows. Cas is so hot, he’s nearly burning Dean’s skin. 

“I won’t,” Dean whispers, and tries to relax against the stone wall. 

.

.

.

It’s hours later, and neither Mick nor Ketch has shown their faces. There’s been no sound of footsteps above them. No shuffles, no scrapes, no whispers above the floorboards, nothing to indicate life outside this cement prison. It occurs to Dean, briefly, that they could’ve left. Driven off somewhere and left him and Cas to starve to death in this musty, moldy catacomb. There’d be nothing he or Cas could do about it. No way to break free. Dean’s already examined the shackles a dozen times, and there’s a supernatural element to it. No pin hole to pick, no bolt to snap. It’s seamless. 

Cas is uncomfortably hot, but he still shivers in Dean’s lap, teeth chattering. Every now and then he mumbles, something incoherent that Dean can’t quite make out. It doesn’t sound like English. He’s too tired to give it much thought, though, and decides it doesn’t really matter in the long run. Everything aches, and every few minutes is punctuated by Cas’s wet, guttural coughing. A man drowning on dry land. Dean leans his head back against the concrete wall and runs his hands up and down Cas’s spine, the empty space where just a few months ago, giant, godly wings were anchored, tethers to Heaven, to angels. Dean hopes the small act is soothing, in some way, even if it’s insignificant in the grand scheme of their problems at hand. 

He knows how this goes. If they don’t get out of here soon, Cas will only get worse and worse, until he stops breathing, period. It will be slow. It will be painful. It will be a pitiful death for a creature that once stormed the gates of Hell, that slew demons for millennia, that watched pebbles form into mountains and craters drive into canyons. It will be an ordinary  _ human _ death. Dean has no idea how long they have, but he knows it’s not a generous amount. Another day, maybe two, but anything longer than that is too much strain on Cas’s body. He can hardly breathe, lung like shriveled party balloons, and without the antibiotics, the fever is going to continue to slowly crawl upwards, until Cas’s brain starts cooking inside his skull like a well-done steak. 

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean mutters, almost a prayer; but praying is useless. Sam can’t hear him. God doesn’t care. The only thing in the universe that used to respond to his prayers is now laying draped across his lap, nearly on death’s door, as human as Dean is, fading faster and faster. 

He has to make a plan. He has faith in Sam, but still no way of knowing how much longer it’ll be for a rescue. He knows Sam is doing his best, probably hasn’t slept since he realized they were missing, but Cas doesn’t have much longer. Dean has to start thinking about other plans. He’s not going to be able to sweet talk Ketch, but Mick? Maybe. Mick keeps looking at Cas with regret. Maybe he has an iota of a soul, or a conscience, or  _ something _ Dean can work with. He just needs an ounce, a fraction of a gram, some semblance of humanity. 

Cas shifts and his eyes open, shiny with fever. 

“Hey,” Dean whispers, voice cracking. 

Cas blinks slowly. “Lucifer,” he hisses. 

Dean frowns. “What’s that?” He brushes the sweaty hair out of Cas’s face. He needs a haircut. It’s such a simple, innocuous thing, it startles Dean to think it’s something needed now. Cas needs haircuts. 

“We have to find Lucifer.”

“He’s dead. Remember? Amara killed him.”

Cas shakes his head, distress pulling at the lines on his face. “No, no, no. He’s in here.” Cas’s eyes dart around the room, prey scanning for its predator. “Don’t let him find you.” His voice is a hoarse whisper. Like in Purgatory, when they were always hiding, ducking behind trees, rocks, crevices in the dirt. Leviathan had superb hearing. Even a heartbeat would alert their senses. 

“Okay. Okay, I won’t. We’ll hide.” 

Cas reaches up and knots his fingers into the collar of Dean’s shirt. It’s surprisingly strong for how sick Cas is. He pulls Dean’s face down towards his; Dean’s stomach lurches as he smells the infection on Cas’s breath. 

“Don’t let Lucifer find you.”

Then, the last of Cas’s strength disappears. His fingers uncurl and his hand falls back to his side. His eyelids close and he goes back into his fitful slumber, fingertips and nose twitching, far away in a dream Dean can’t touch. A dream Dean can’t take away and alter. Not the way Cas used to for him. The way Cas can’t anymore. 

Dean stares at the empty space in front of him, chest heavy. Lucifer is gone, but his presence still lingers. The trauma in Sam’s eyes. The fragile human body in Dean’s lap. Nothing is ever going to undo what he did. They’re just going to have to try and live despite it, live through it, press on like they always do. Keep chugging along, even when the tanks are on empty, when the engines are almost dry. They’re Winchesters. They don’t just give up. They fight. They’ll fight through this too. 

Cas coughs again.

Dean presses his eyes closed. “C’mon, Sammy. Please.” 

.

.

.

Ketch comes back down the stairs with a water jug. Dean’s stomach rumbles at the sight of no food. Ketch sets it down on the platter, then stands up, ramrod straight, and looks at Dean with a lecherous grin. 

“So,” Ketch says, pulling at his tie. “Are you finally going to come around?”

“Come around to kicking your ass.” 

Ketch huffs. “Really?” He looks at the shackle clamped tightly around Dean’s ankle and shakes his head, still grinning. “I’d like to take you up on the offer but, well, circumstances. . .”

“Take this off and we’ll fight mano y mano,” Dean says evenly. He stares at Ketch, rage boiling under his skin, hellfire right there. Never quite out of reach. Cas took Dean out of Hell, but Hell is still inside him, just under the surface, always within easy reach. Alistair was right, all those years ago; some people are just. . . talented. Hell brings out the craftsman in everyone.

Ketch sneers. “How barbaric.”

“ _ I’m  _ barbaric?”

“You, your brother, the halo.” At Cas, Ketch’s sneer somehow worsens. Dean curls over Cas’s upper body as best he can, daring, with his eyes, for Ketch to make a move. 

Ketch turns and examines the concrete, fingertips tapping across the lines and sediment. “Just because you hunt monsters doesn’t mean you need to act like. . . well, a hunter.” He turns back and faces Dean. “I understand your lineage is rather. . . well, white-trash, is the term you Americans use, correct?”

Dean schools his face into an illegible mask. Ketch huffs in amusement. 

“All I’m saying is, it’s a privilege to have the job you do. You could have some class. Quite often it seems the way the American sect behaves is little different than the monsters we hunt! We’re not monsters, Dean. Not animals. We are not only the most intelligent species on the planet, but we’re the most intelligent of the most intelligent. The Men of Letters has evaded detection since its formation back in the 1600s. The NSA was uncovered almost immediately after its implementation.” 

“You really like to hear yourself talk, don’t ya?” Dean says.

Ketch continues, “Of course, there are amnesty procedures in place. Some presidents know of our existence, but only if they are not determined to be a security issue. Some of your elected officials have big mouths and as a result must be kept in the dark. What I am saying, Dean, is that instead of thinking of yourself as a hunter—someone that kills things for sports—realize that instead you’re a spy. Undercover, on secret missions, all across the world. What you do goes unnoticed, but it matters. You should hold yourself with some dignity.”

Dean laughs. He can’t help it. It just comes out. “Dignity? I spend half my life covered in monster guts, and the other half digging up graves. Forget it. Just save your breath. We are not joining your side,  _ capisce _ ?”

Ketch sighs, forlorn. “Is that really your final answer?”

“True Daily Double, Alex.”

“I truly hoped you would change your mind, Dean. But, if that’s the way it’s meant to be. . . well, as you’ve said. Nothing we can do about it.”

Ketch leaves. Dean leans back against the wall, sighing.

And then his eyes burst open.

There is something behind the wall. Something moving. Rushing. 

Something drips onto Dean’s face. 

Again.

And again.

He leans his head back. 

Water pours down from the top of the walls. From several different spots, fat tendrils, like snakes, slipping down from the ceiling.

“What the fuck?” Dean says, jostling the chain. He gently shoves Cas off his lap and stands, looking.

The holes at the top of the wall. They’re not holes. They’re  _ spouts _ . 

Water quickly collects at the bottom, already up to Dean’s ankles. It’s hard to see in the dark, but there must be at least twenty spouts drilled into the concrete, and water falls freely from them. Dean takes in the dimensions of their prison again. It’s tiny. And with the rate the water’s coming, Dean estimates they have maybe fifteen minutes until the water reaches the ceiling. 

“Cas, get up,” Dean snaps. “Get up!” He grabs Cas’s elbows, ungently, and hoists Cas upwards. Cas stumbles, knees wobbly. Dean braces him against the wall, but Cas just slowly slips until he’s sitting. 

“Damn it, Cas, you have to get up!”

Cas nods, like he understands, but then he makes no move to shift to his feet. The water is rushing in loudly now. Like it’s a waterfall by Dean’s ears. It’s tepid and clear. The exact opposite of the river water—icy and foamy and rapid—but it makes Dean freeze nonetheless. 

Dean starts pulling at his chain. His muscles are taut, and he’s beginning to sweat within just a few moments, using all his might. He’s been trying this for the past several hours to no avail, but now. . .  _ now _ it truly is a matter of life or death. His adrenaline is pounding. Heartbeat slamming against his ribs, reverberating up to his skull. He pulls, pulls, pulls, strains, teeth gnashed together. He bites his tongue and blood fills his mouth, and he still continues to pull. 

The water is up to his knees.

“Cas,” Dean says in between breaths, “I could really use your help right about now.”

Something changes immediately. Cas’s dull eyes spark—even shiny in their fever, there is that worry, that anger. He squints and watches Dean, then shakily gets to his feet. 

“Come on, come on,” Dean says, like he’s coaxing a cat out of hiding. “That’s it, you can do it. Help me pull this off.”

He’ll get the chain off, then go for the door. It’s unlocked on this side. The water will rush out. Cas won’t be at risk of drowning,  _ again _ , and then Dean can focus on getting Cas unchained.

“Pull with me,” Dean says, and together, he and Cas work, tugging with all their combined strength. Even sick as he is, Cas puts his all into it, back arching towards the ground. The sync together, pulling, laxing, pulling, laxing.

Nothing budges.

Dean’s panting. Cas, too, and he’s shaking, knees wobbling. They continue. The water is loud now, and nearly up to their waists. Dean’s pants cling uncomfortably to his skin, restricting his movements. Cas keeps trying, as best as he can, but he’s at the end of his rope. He won’t admit it, but Dean can tell. Cas’s strength is almost up. 

Not that it matters, Dean thinks bitterly. Even if Cas was at full strength, they’d be in the same situation. There must be some kind of magic anchoring the chain to the wall as well as the shackles around their ankles. Nothing they do is going to matter.

This is it.

This is how they die.

Better dead than a puppet, Dean thinks. But still. Not the blaze of glory ending he’d always imagined. Definitely not the quietly slip away in his sleep at old age death he always secretly wanted.

He can’t believe Sam went through all the trouble of saving Cas in the river just for Cas to drown in some creep’s basement a few days later.

The water pushes them off the floor, quickly bringing them closer to the ceiling. 

“Cas,” Dean says, gasping in panic, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s o-okay,” Cas says, voice hoarse. 

“It’s really not.” A panicked laugh. “But, at least we’ll die side by side, eh?”

“An hon-hon-orable death, tru-truly.” There is not an ounce of sarcasm in Cas’s voice. Pure sincerity. It makes Dean choke on his spit. He never knows how to react when Cas does that. Drowning in a basement an honorable death, just because he does it with Dean? When he’s battled demons and forces of evil since the Big Bang?

“I should’ve—”

“No,” Cas interrupts. “Y-you were right to de-deny them.”

Dean hopes so. And he hopes that Sam can forgive him. 

_ Sam, I’m sorry _ he thinks as the ceiling comes closer. He has to struggle to keep his head above water now. The chain is nearly taut, and in just a few more minutes, they both are going to be totally submerged. 

Dean reaches out and grabs Cas’s hand. Cas rubs his thumb across the top of Dean’s palm. 

He should say it. He knows he should say it. It’s right there at the back of his throat, but it’s a scared creature, too timid to show itself. He almost did, back when it seemed like they were all going to die. When he was going to blow himself up to destroy Amara. In the car. The beer run.

_ Cas, I want you to know— _

But he chickened out. Flinched back, like a snake struck him. 

_ You’re our brother _ .

Because he’s a coward.

Truly, in his heart, he’s a coward.

“Cas,” he says, “Iloveyou.”

Cas smiles softly. “I know.”

Dean’s brain buffers. “Did you just fucking Han Solo me?”

“I’ve al-always kn-known,Dean. But it’s st-still ni-ce to hear.”

“You’re an asshole. I take it back. I take it all back!”

“I love you too.”

The water creeps up over their heads. Dean takes in one last huge breath.

And then they’re falling.

The water rushes out and away and they’re falling, fast. They hit the ground hard, Dean biting on his tongue, swallowing a swear. His shoulder takes all the impact and he knows there’s going to be a bitch of a bruise. He pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing. There is still water up to his waist, but his head is above the surface. He turns to see the door wide open, Mick at the top of the stairs.

Sam is behind him, gun directed at Mick’s head. “You guys okay?” Sam calls down, voice echoing in the chamber.

Dean laughs. All the fear evaporates and he laughs out of nervousness, relief, exaltation. “Goddamnit, Sam, we need to work on your timing.”

Sam leads Mick down the stairs, boots slamming against the concrete in hurried motions. 

“Free them,” Sam demands, shoving Mick harshly to the ground. The gun clicks as the chamber rolls. “No funny business.” Mick’s face is red, panicked, eyes glassy with tears of fear. He grabs Dean’s ankle and Dean resists the urge to kick him in the face, over and over, until all his teeth fall out. Mick says something, stumbling over his words so much he has to repeat it three times before it comes out right. The shackle around Dean’s ankle glows a light yellow color, like daisies. There is a faint  _ click _ and it falls off into two halves, sinking to the bottom of the shallow water now pooled in the basement. He does Cas next, less stuttery. 

Dean shakily gets to his feet, then helps hoist Cas up. Sam still has the gun pointed at Mick, eyes animalistic. 

“Ketch?” Dean says.

“The slimey guy? Put a bullet between his eyes.”

There’s a momentary pang in Dean’s chest that he didn’t get to be the one to pull the trigger, but it quickly passes. Dead is dead. 

“What’re we doing with this asshole?” Sam says, chest huffed out. Sam’s already monstrously tall, but sometimes he tries and bulks up even more to intimidate their foes. It’s rarely successful against demons or other monsters, but humans seem to be terrified of things larger than themselves. He’s doing that now, towering over Mick, who is still cowed on the ground, murky water staining his pristine suit. No amount of dry cleaning will ever salvage it. 

Dean shares a glance with Cas. Cas nods once, minutely. Dean sighs. He can’t believe he’s doing this. Why does he have to be the good guy? 

“Let him go,” Dean says. “You tell your  _ friends _ that if anyone messes with us, or any of the other American hunters again, we will go after you, and we will show no mercy. Consider this your get out of jail free card.  _ Capisce _ ?”

Mick stutters, lips quivering. Sound comes out, but not in any intelligible verbiage. Sam grabs him by the collar of his jacket, yanks him to his feet, and pushes him towards the stairs. Mick trips as he crawls up like a toddler, but he makes it up hastily, despite Sam’s gun still aimed precisely at the nape of his neck.

Mick turns the corner and disappears.

Sam exhales, body deflating. He clicks the safety on, gun falling to rest parallel by his leg. “You guys really okay?”

“Hydrotherapy’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Sammy,” Dean manages. Now that the immediate danger is over, his muscles are beginning to ache terribly. His knees buckle; Cas steadies him, gripping his elbow. It’s surprisingly strong, considering how tired Cas is as well. 

“You should sit down,” Cas says, and Dean shrugs out of Cas’s grip. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here first,” Dean says. 

Sam helps Dean and Cas up the stairs. Cas, too, is struggling to stay upright now that the adrenaline has evaporated. Dean’s lightheaded, and now he’s got a bad case of swimmer’s ear. He imagines Cas must feel the same, if not worse. 

The top of the stairs leads to the living room of a quaint cabin. There’s a thick, wool rug and a couch, a small TV and kitchenette. Hardly has the appearance of an international espionage operation. More like an old deer hunting cabin. 

Ketch lays in the kitchen, obscured by the cabinets. Blood pools underneath his head, thick like syrup. His eyes are open and vacant and a fly buzzes past his face. Dean can’t dredge up an iota of sympathy. Dean would spit on his corpse if he wasn’t so tired. 

He barely makes it outside towards the Impala. Dean almost cries at the sight of his Baby, pristine as always, shiny against the starlight, waiting to carry them home.

“Wait here while I, uh, clean things up,” Sam says.

Dean opens his mouth to argue. Sam is going to need help—but his eyes are so tired, and Baby is always so comfy, especially after long days. His ass has been sitting against concrete for who knows how long now—resting on Baby’s soft interior sounds heavenly. He and Cas get into the backseat and huddle together, wet clothes uncomfortable, but Dean is able to ignore it when he feels Cas’s warmth radiating through the fabric. It reminds him that Cas still needs his medicine. He reaches forward, into the glovebox, and finds Cas’s prescriptions and a water bottle. 

_ Thank you, Sammy _ , he thinks. He shakes out two pills into Cas’s palm and then unscrews the water bottle. Cas takes his meds, then leans against Dean once more. 

They nod off. The next thing Dean knows, the car is moving, and the cabin is soon an ugly sore in the rearview mirror. Cas is pressed against him, comfortably dozed off. 

“You guys are cute together,” Sam teases.

“Shut up.”

“I mean it. You should see yourself. Practically drooling on him, poor Cas. Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

“I mean it,” Dean says testily. “Shut your cakehole, or I’ll kick you in the nuts.”

“I already shared the pictures with Eileen. She thinks it’s cute too. Think I’ll make it my lockscreen.”

“Asshole.” Dean flips Sam off. When he raises his arm, Cas snuggles closer to Dean, resting his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean flushes and Sam shoots him a knowing look from the rearview, grinning like a cheeky bastard. The Impala’s engine rumbles—a beautiful sound, one Dean had been longing to hear. It’s safety and it’s home.

Dean closes his eyes once more and the next time he opens them, Sam is parking the car in front of the bunker. He rouses Cas and with Sam’s help, gets him down the steps.

“Hot shower,” Dean says, shivering himself. “Hot shower, then bed.” He coughs. It’s shallow and sickly. Dean still feels the mucus low in his chest, sitting in his ribs. Cas stares at him and frowns. He puts the back of his hand to Dean’s forehead. Dean flinches at the touch and tries to move away from it, but Cas is persistent and stubborn. He growls and uses his other hand to keep Dean’s head stil.

“You’re feverish,” he says. He turns to Sam. “Sam, Dean has a fever.”

“Yeah?” Sam looks Dean up and down, then clicks his tongue. “Dean, you got that look.”

“I’m fine,” Dean snaps through the tickle in his throat. He can’t hold it back much longer, though, and starts to cough again. Again, they’re shallow—he’s not able to go deep and get that obstruction he can feel in his lungs. He coughs so hard his eyes start to water.

Sam steadies Dean by grabbing onto his shoulder. 

“You might want to jump in the shower too,” Sam advises. “I can make some soup while you’re in there. Then you two can snuggle in bed like baby bunnies.”

“Shut up,” Dean says. “I can still kick your ass.”

Sam huffs. “Sure.” He turns to Cas and his expression softens. “Get him in the shower, will you?” There’s another request underneath, one Dean can hear, despite the pounding that’s started in his ears.  _ Take care of him _ .

“Of course,” Cas says, nodding. He takes Dean’s elbow and leads him towards the shower stalls. Dean doesn’t have the energy to fight. He follows Cas into the bathroom and waits on the toilet while Cas starts the water, checking it frequently to ensure it’s at the proper temperature. Then, Cas starts to slowly strip out of his wet clothes. The bruises are still stark against his skin. He pulls the bandage off his head, soaked and stained with old blood. But he stands up straight, checks the water once more, then turns to Dean.

Dean starts to protest—he doesn’t need help—but the energy is all gone. He lets Cas pull his jacket off, then pull the shirt over his head. Cas helps Dean stand and step out of his pants and boxers, then Cas tugs Dean into the stall.

It’s wonderful. The water is hot, the pressure is high. The moment the first droplets hit his skin, Dean feels the tension melt out. He could stay under here forever. 

There’s still a heavy weight on his chest and a headache is forming around the front of his skull. But he’s  _ warm _ and Cas is okay and they’re home. Everything else is a minute problem. It can wait. He shoves it to the back of his mind, exists in this moment, savors it. Cas is bruised, each breath sounds like popcorn, but he’s here. They’re here. 

They stand there quietly, soaping up and shampooing, until the hot water starts to run out and chills run down Dean’s spine. Cas turns the water off and grabs the towel from just outside the shower. He throws it around Dean’s shoulders and starts to pat Dean’s hair dry.

_ I can do it, _ Dean thinks, but the words don’t come to his tongue.  _ You’re the one that’s sick  _ stays in his throat. Dean steps out and pulls Cas towards him. The space between them is infimesmal and infinite at the same time. They are closer than ever and further apart than ever. 

Towels are just within hand’s reach. They drip dry. Dean’s never felt more uncomfortable under Cas’s surgical gaze. There’s too much behind it—empathy, longing, searching for something Dean will never understand. Cas can dissect him skin to soul with just that little gaze of his; Dean feels like he’s under a microscope, and he can’t move.

Finally, Dean breaks the silence. “Can’t streak through the bunker with Sam here.” He’s not able to dredge up a laugh at his own joke. 

Cas continues to stare. “He probably wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“Definitely not.”

Cas frowns, but takes the towel and wraps it around his waist. Dean stands, watches motionless. Cas takes the towel off Dean’s hand and wraps it around Dean’s waist, tugging it into a secure knot.

“Cas—”

“It’s okay.” A small smile. The rare, unsure quirks of the lips that only Dean gets to see. “I know.” Cas takes Dean’s hand. And tugs. And then they’re in the hallway, barefeet making soft  _ pitter patter _ noises against the cold concrete. Dean coughs. Cas sneezes and shakes, bruised ribs still staring malevolently at Dean. 

Hand in hand, they walk to Dean’s room. The door creaks open and Dean stares inside, heart unfurling. Comfort. Security. A bed that remembers him. New memories to be made. 

“You sure about this?” Dean asks. He feels like a little kid, about to jump into the deep end of the pool without his floaties. Because he would understand if Cas wasn’t sure. If Cas didn’t want—this. Cas is—Cas, and Dean’s, well, Dean. Hell lives in him, just beneath the surface of his skin, ready to burst out at any moment. “Because—”

Cas shushes him, puts his finger against Dean’s lips. There’s a fever in his eyes, and Dean can feel the heat radiating off his skin, but there’s also surety. There’s that same warrior of God glare Dean’s seen hundreds of times and been on the receiving end his fair share. This is the glare that makes demons and angels and prophets alike cower; not because Cas is a warrior of God, trained from infancy for thousands of years, but because it’s  _ Cas _ , and that anger, that energy, that purpose and passion, is all him.

Dean laughs out of nervousness. He coughs again, into his elbow. “Don’t think this was part of the plan,” he says lamely.

Cas smirks. “We make it up as we go.”

And then, Cas tugs him over the threshold into the bedroom, and the door closes. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Be sure to give Hitori all the love she needs for her amazing art! Reblog the masterpost [Here!](https://hitori-alouette.tumblr.com/post/617923348109918208/art-for-by-the-riverbed-by-darkheartinthesky-for). 
> 
> [Say Hi on tumblr!](https://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com/).


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